Dukes Prefer Bluestockings Page 10

  In fact the dress looked rather like something that someone might wear for a wedding. Miss Butterworth had worn something quite similar. Remarkably similar. The same yellow with the same net overlay. Even the woman’s ivory slippers appeared the same, though Hamish supposed that if one had the poor sense to attempt travel in a flimsy fabric certain to be pierced easily, one likely also had the poor sense to attempt travel in ivory slippers. The glossy sheen looked very like silk, and he had a moment of sympathy for the hardworking silkworms who’d toiled over the thread and the merchants who’d arranged transport for it from some far flung Chinese port.

  He smiled as he recalled the elder Miss Butterworth, though his lips felt heavy. Perhaps she was regretting not accepting the proffered coin on behalf of her sister when she’d the chance. Oh, well. He’d had a duty to the MacTavish name. One day he hoped she would understand. Besides, her opinion didn’t matter. He’d never see her again.

  He hardened his jaw and approached the coach. He glanced again at the dress, whose owner had decided to move.

  It did appear most similar. He shook his head. Obviously, it was a delusion. He’d spent so much time with the Butterworth family yesterday and this morning, that his mind evidently was accustomed to thinking about them. Likely Miss Butterworth had actually worn a blue dress with no netting at all, and his mind shouldn’t be musing over her in the slightest.

  All the same, he swung his gaze about the carriage park of the posting inn. None of the scruffy carts or finer post chaises resembled something the Butterworth family might travel in, and he ascended to the coach’s perch.

  “Mr. MacTavish.”

  Hamish’s heart stopped.

  The voice was female with an English accent that was not quite as refined as the other women in the ton, as if she’d not spent all her time in Kent or any of the other places designated as the home counties.

  He thought again of the dress…of the shoes. A traitorous thread of curiosity ricocheted through him, but he pushed the though away.

  “Mr. MacTavish!” the voice said again.

  Hamish turned.

  It was Miss Butterworth.

  Of course it was Miss Butterworth. The woman had the same auburn hair, the same wide set eyes, and yes, the same yellow, wildly inappropriate dress.

  “What are you doing here?” His voice sounded hoarse, and he coughed.

  “I’m afraid I fell asleep in the coach,” she said. “You’ll have to bring me back to London. I am sorry. How silly of me.”

  The one thing he knew about Miss Butterworth was that she was not silly. He rolled his gaze over her, but she managed to maintain an innocent expression. Still… Her words sounded almost…rehearsed.

  Why on earth would she have claimed to fall asleep inside his coach if she hadn’t?

  “You’re too intelligent to do that.”

  She paused for a moment, but then she gave a slight giggle. “How kind of you to say that.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Why did you enter my coach?”

  “Well, I was ever so exhausted.” She paused for a moment and then her lashes fluttered at a distinctly faster pace than normal.

  Outrageous.

  She was attempting to flirt with him.

  The woman didn’t like him, that much he knew, so if she was attempting to flirt that probably meant…she had something to hide.

  He glassed in the direction of the posting inn to see his reflection.

  No.

  He had not gotten more attractive since this morning, and he would have had to get substantially more attractive for her to be fluttering her lashes at such a rate. Since the lassie had spent the majority of their conversations berating him, she would have had to have undergone a considerable personality shift as well.

  “What are you not sharing with me?” He narrowed his eyes, and hers widened in a predictable manner.

  From the distance he spotted the groom. The man was frowning and approaching.

  Hamish scowled. Likely the groom thought they were having a marital dispute. Well, he didn’t have time to defend himself.

  “Get up,” he said.

  Miss Butterworth blinked. “Excuse me?”

  He grabbed her hand and pulled her onto the seat.

  “What are you doing?” Miss Butterworth stammered.

  The lassie retained such a startled expression, that he grinned. “My muscular frame is not just for show.”

  Her face pinkened in a delightful manner, and he focused on the reins, and not the fact that Miss Butterworth and he were wedged tightly together.

  Hamish urged the horses to trot, and they left the posting inn.

  “We’re going in the wrong direction,” she exclaimed. “We should head back to London.”

  He smirked. “Is that so?”

  “Yes,” she squeaked.

  He pondered what would have compelled her to have sneaked into his carriage.

  “Are you attempting to compromise me, lassie?”

  “Me? Compromise you?” She scooted away. “That would be nonsense. Quite impossible. How could you think such a thing?”

  Hmph.

  “I would make an excellent husband,” he grumbled.

  Her eyes widened, and warmth stung his cheeks. “I only meant you needn’t be quite so outraged.”

  “Oh.”

  And then another thought occurred to him. If Georgiana did not intend to spend time with him, perhaps she intended him to stay away from something. Georgiana seemed eager to return to London. Had she snuck onto his coach purely so he would have to return her, knowing he would be unlikely to let her risk harm by attempting to travel back alone?

  For some reason, she didn’t want him to go to Scotland. He scrunched his eyebrows together. Did she desire people to think he’d compromised her? It seemed like she would be eager for him to be as far away as possible.

  Gretna Green.

  The thought leapt through his mind. The small village had profited from the Hardwick Act of 1754 and had gained notoriety throughout the British Isles as a haven for not quite appropriate weddings. Hamish must be planning to take his bride there.

  It all made sense. His brother hadn’t given up on Miss Charlotte Butterworth after all. He’d only decided that Hamish could no longer be trusted, and had not only not invited him to the wedding, he’d also assured him it wasn’t even going to occur. That was why she didn’t want him to go to Scotland now.

  His chest ached. Not only had his brother not respected his opinion—he’d lied.

  “My brother still intends to marry your sister,” Hamish said.

  She was silent.

  Miss Butterworth would have certainly let him know if he was wrong. His lips almost quirked. They would have quirked if he’d been slightly less angry.

  “They intend to elope in Scotland, where they won’t need a marriage license,” he said.

  She remained silent.

  God in heaven.

  Hamish tightened his grip on the reins, and his knuckles whitened. “My brother lied to me.”

  “I’m sorry,” Miss Butterworth said finally. “I imagine it must be hard for you.”

  “It is,” Hamish said. “I’m his brother.”

  “He was worried you would try to stop the next wedding, so he—”

  “Lied to me,” Hamish finished.

  His voice wobbled uncharacteristically. God in heaven. Callum was his twin. He wasn’t supposed to lie to him. They didn’t have parents. Even their guardians were now gone. Whom did they have except each other?

  He has Miss Charlotte Butterworth.

  The thought had been absurd. Callum and the other Miss Butterworth hadn’t acted as if they were in a love match, but had Hamish simply been blind to everything except his preconceptions?

  For the first time he was unsure.

  Either way he had to speak to his brother. He wasn’t going to allow him to marry this person on a whim or an ac
t of rebellion. Hamish had always been the stable one, and Callum had always been more rebellious. Callum had always been thankful when Hamish had stepped in and saved things. Why wouldn’t he be now?

  Miss Butterworth shifted on the seat, and the wood creaked below them.

  “Damnation.” Hamish scowled.

  She gasped.

  “Oh, you can’t tell me such dreadful things and expect me not to be upset,” Hamish said.

  “N-naturally not,” Miss Butterfield said, glancing back in the direction of the capital.

  He urged the horses to go faster. He needed to get to Scotland.

  At once.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Georgiana was coming to the dreadful realization that her brilliant plan might have lacked brilliance.

  Mr. MacTavish’s gaze remained upon her, like some beast in the woods, assessing whether to attack her now or wait for another occasion. She supposed that warmth had never traditionally been bestowed on bearers of bad news.

  She’d thought the duke’s brother was galloping in pursuit of the duke and Charlotte, when instead he’d been under the entirely mistaken impression that he’d stopped the wedding. No doubt he’d been heading toward Scotland, spurred on by visions of bannocks, bridies and blood sausages.

  And now…

  Well, she wasn’t certain what would happen now, but he did not seem to be turning the carriage around.

  She cleared her throat. “Naturally you’ll need to return me to my parents.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes. A gentleman should not be alone with a lady.”

  “I’m Scottish, lassie. I didn’t think I was considered a gentleman.”

  “Of course you are,” she said.

  He glanced at her, but his smile had vanished. “I’m not returning you.”

  “You’re jesting.”

  “I’m not,” he said, his voice serious.

  Her heartbeat seemed to have caught up with the implications of his words, for it had started to beat much more rapidly.

  She glanced down at the ground, wondering just how quickly the carriage was going. Would it hurt a lot if she leaped from it?

  If only she weren’t wearing quite such a frilly dress. The puffed sleeves might be fashionable in London, but she had the impression the style had not yet conquered the counties and people might view the netting more as a sign of a person they could take advantage of, despite its expedient manner in adding volume. The carefully stitched flowers on the hem would not prevent any ruffians from harming her, and would only serve to make her stand out more to every person with nefarious intentions.

  She should be in her traveling gown.

  She’d never longed for a murky brown dress more than now.

  *

  Hamish scowled.

  The lass had snuck into the coach out of some misguided sense of duty. It was dashed inconvenient. Had she really thought that by flinging herself into his carriage he would return her to her parents? She’d acted too quickly, too impetuously. He wouldn’t change his plan for her, no matter how innocent she might appear with her widely spaced eyes, and no matter how fetching her habit of wobbling her lower lip when distressed might be.

  “I’ll scream,” she said. “You can’t take me with you against my will.”

  Her voice was firm, and he almost wanted to smile, but he noticed the slight wobble of her lips.

  She was scared.

  God in heaven. He’d scared her. “I won’t hurt you,” he promised. “I won’t ever hurt you. That’s not the sort of man I am. You have to believe that.”

  “But I can’t take you back to London. Not when it entails abandoning my brother to a terrible fate.”

  She straightened and narrowed her eyes.

  “Not that your sister is unpleasant,” he hastened to add. “But she’s not his betrothed, and I see no reason to hamper relations with the McIntyre family. I’m not going to let him destroy centuries of good relations with our nearest neighbor.” Or sadden the ghosts of Callum’s and his finest guardian. “Lady Isla has done nothing wrong. She doesn’t deserve to have her reputation smeared.”

  “It has nothing to do with this Lady Isla.”

  He gave her a long hard stare. “Even you don’t believe it.”

  She swallowed hard.

  “You’ve heard about Lady Cordelia?” he asked more casually.

  “Daughter of the Duke of Belmonte? The loveliest debutante of the past five seasons?” Her voice had a bitter edge to it which he despised.

  “That must be an exaggeration,” he said.

  “Why?”

  Because it didn’t include Miss Butterworth.

  He kept the compliment on his tongue and averted his gaze. “Lady Cordelia’s reputation was maligned after she was betrothed to two men. Each time didn’t lead to a marriage.”

  “Perhaps Lady Isla can be clever enough to marry the next man to whom she is promised,” Miss Butterworth said. “Besides, why would I wish my sister’s reputation to be maligned?”

  Hamish gritted his teeth together. She was as loyal to her sister as he was to his brother. It was damned inconvenient. “You have to let me speak with him again.”

  “You had your chance,” Miss Butterworth said airily.

  “Then I want another one. You must understand. I won’t give up until there’s no more hope.”

  Tears welled in her eyes, and he sighed.

  “Look. Once we meet with your sister, she can vouch for you and say that you were traveling with her. She’ll protect your reputation. If you scream and people learn that you were traveling alone with me… will that help you?”

  She was silent and then she slowly shook her head. “That’s not how it should work.”

  “Aye.” He shrugged. “But that’s how it does work, lassie. It would be foolish of me to not try to take advantage of it.”

  “You’re a horrible man.”

  He flinched, but then he shot her a lazy smile. “I can drop you at the next posting inn and give you the fare for the mailcoach. What will going back alone gain you?”

  She was silent, but he answered for her anyway. “Nothing.”

  “You’re right,” she said.

  “Aye, that I am.”

  If she continued on with him, her sister could salvage her reputation. People would believe Miss Butterworth had helped her sister elope, and the word of a duchess meant something. Her reputation would be destroyed if she was spotted arriving to London by herself or if someone decided to take advantage of her.

  Hamish urged the horses forward. The flat landscapes provided expansive views of the Great North Road and the long column of wagons and gigs that filled it.

  Wind swept over them, the force stronger given their high, unprotected perch. Miss Butterworth placed her hands over her dress, protecting the frivolous material from lifting in unladylike manners. “We’ll need to get two rooms in posting inns.

  “Naturally,” he grumbled.

  “And you’re going to behave.”

  “Like a choir boy. Though you shouldn’t be making the rules. This is my coach, after all.”

  “What do you want?” she asked, her voice tentative.

  There was something appealing about how her face changed color with her emotions. She was beautiful all the time, but he loved how her skin reddened when she was angry and paled when she was distressed.

  He shook his head. He shouldn’t be contemplating her.

  He halted. “Go inside. I don’t need to make conversation with you for the next four hundred miles.”

  She nodded and rushed inside the coach. Damnation.

  He’d been too harsh, but how was he supposed to travel with her all the way to Scotland?

  Chapter Fifteen

  Georgiana closed her eyes, willing herself to pretend that she was still in Norfolk. But the ever-winding road could not be confused with Norfolk’s flat terrain, and the sounds
of other coaches and horses trotting could not be confused with the gentle hum of her father’s vicarage.

  The horror of what she’d done moved through her, but she raised her chin. This could still work. He would bring her to Charlotte, since he desired to see the duke.

  Everything could be fine.

  It has to be.

  The coach slowed and then veered to the side. Mr. MacTavish could be heard soothing the horses.

  What had caused him to stop?

  Georgiana’s heartbeat quickened, and she was conscious that she was not supposed to be here. Was this when the man decided to ravish her? Tension swept through her body, and she reminded herself that this would be by no means desirable.

  She could hear Mr. MacTavish’s footsteps nearby, and she stiffened, knowing that he would soon open the door to the coach.

  The door swung open, and she blinked. The sun hung low on the horizon, as if to better direct its rays into her eyes.

  She forced a smile on her face, as if she were having a pleasant time inside the coach and not the least bit afraid.

  She wondered if men could smell fear. Couldn’t animals? Would he take advantage of her?

  “Out,” Mr. MacTavish said, his voice rough.

  “Pardon me?”

  He sighed. “You can’t stay in that coach the whole day.”

  “But I intend to!”

  “The weather is nice,” he said. “You shouldn’t be inside. At least, not on my account. No one’s going to recognize you so far from London.”

  Georgiana frowned and exited the coach. She followed him up to the perch.

  “A break from the rain is a cause to celebrate,” Mr. MacTavish said.

  Georgiana was silent. He didn’t need to know that she felt any relief at leaving the coach’s drab, dark interior.

  The wagons and gigs that had filled the road had thinned, as if few people could discern a reason to be so far from the capital. Villages were visible in the distance, their stone homes from past centuries clustered around plump Norman churches. The poor weather had not been conducive for an appropriate floral environment. Still, it was June, and even if some of the orchards remained bare, damaged from the harsh climate, and even if there were rather fewer flowers than the year before, there were still flowers, and it was still lovely.